Page 47 of Worth the Shot

For a second—just one impossible, suspended second—it felt like coming home. His chest was solid beneath my cheek as I breathed him in, pine and sugar wrapping around me. He didn’t rush me or fill the silence. He didn’t try to fix anything. Instead he just held me, like I was allowed to fall apart a little without breaking. Like I mattered.

My fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt without me realizing, gripping him like he was the only thing keeping me upright, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Didn’t make a joke to lighten the moment. He just…stayed. And when I finally pulled back, when I finally looked up at him, the kitchen felt too small to hold everything pressed between us. The glow of the Christmas lights blurred around the edges, making him look softer, warmer. Too close. Too good. “Thank you,” I’d said, because anything else felt too loud.

And then my own eyes betrayed me, drifting to the one place I knew would change everything.

His lips.

The tension between us was something I’d only ever read about. Something I never truly believed existed outside of books. But standing there, our mouths so close I could almost taste him, I knew it was real. I felt it everywhere. The pull, the ache, the dangerous, reckless urge to close the distance and let everything unravel.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But I also know that wanting him means crossing a line I’m not sure I’m ready to face. One second more, one inch closer, would shatter the fragile sense of control I’ve fought so hard to keep. So when Shayne flipped on that light switch, snapping the moment clean in half, it felt like a mercy. Like being dragged back from the edge into a reality that was safer, even if it wasn’t what my body was begging for.

And now, as I stand here alone in the hallway, my heart beating too fast, breath catching in my throat, I can still feel the imprint of his arms around me. Still feel the echo of something I’m not sure how to name. I press my back to the wall and let out a slow breath.

What are you doing, Delaney? You survived the last few months by shutting every door that could possibly lead somewhere vulnerable. By being fine, by pretending to be fine, by convincing everyone—including yourself—that fine was enough.

And then he comes along with stupid gingerbread cookies and soft eyes and hands that hold you like you’re something precious and suddenly fine isn’t enough anymore.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to pull myself together before I have to walk back out there and pretend I didn’t just melt into Brennan Hale like he was gravity and I was done resisting.

Get it together, Collins. It was just a hug.

A hug that made you feel more seen than you have in years. A hug that cracked open a door you’ve been barricading shut. A hug that you are absolutely, under no circumstances, allowed to think about again, and definitely not what almost happened after.

I take another deep breath, push off the wall, and force myself to walk back toward the living room where everyone thinks I’m just Delaney. Normal. Functional. Fine. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.

The second I walk in, Shayne gives me a look that I immediately ignore, offering my most casual smile. I take the seat next to Mom because that’s the only safe option. She’s mid-story, talking Rick’s ear off about some weird noise her furnace is making, and even though he looks absolutely entranced by every word coming out of her mouth, she’s completely oblivious. He promises he’ll stop by tomorrow to take a look, and she touches his arm, telling him she doesn’t know what she’d do without him. Her hand stays there a little too long and it makes something twist in my stomach that I can't name. Protective? Shocked? Weirdly sentimental? I don’t know, I just know I don’t like the feeling.

I glance up and catch Brennan watching too. His gaze meets mine, like he wants me to know he sees me. He doesn’t say a word, but the understanding in his eyes is loud enough to hear.

Miles jingles his keys which is his famous, subtle (not subtle at all) “let’s go” cue. Brennan picks up on it instantly and starts his round of goodbyes, saving me for last. He stands in front of me with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, like he’s afraid to cross whatever invisible boundary might’ve existed before that hug in the kitchen. As if he’s not sure if that moment was a one-time glitch or a new truth.

“You never opened my present,” he says, almost surprised as the realization hits him.

“You’re right.” I swallow. “Is it okay if I open it later?” The thought of another one-on-one moment tonight feels too dangerous. I’m not sure I trust myself not to fall all the way off the cliff.

He nods, slow and gentle, like he gets it, and I step toward him, just a little. He answers with a polite, safe side-hug. A one arm, harmless, friendship hug. Except it feels wrong. So without even thinking, I reach up and tug lightly on his other arm, just enough for him to understand what I’m asking for. He immediately wraps both arms around me, and God help me, I melt.

I’m aware the whole room is pretending not to watch, busying themselves with exaggerated small talk, but I feel it. All of them quietly rooting for…whatever this is. Or isn’t. Or might be.

I force myself to keep it short. Keep it platonic. Keep it under control. But in my chest? It’s not platonic at all. When we pull apart, the air feels cold and empty, like stepping out of warm water into a winter night.

“Text when you make it home so I know you’re safe,” I say.

He smiles and nods. I let my eyes linger on him as I watch him walk out, pulling his winter knit hat over his head. He looks back for a moment that feels so quick that it barely exists, and he smiles, winking at me like he’s saying a million things only my heart can hear. I close the door, undoubtedly to hide the smile I’ve lost all control over, and all I can think is…

I already miss him.

I throw myself into my own goodbyes next starting with Miles. He gives me a knowing look and with him, I don’t hide it. I just squeeze him tight and tell him I love him.

Mom is also heading out with Rick and I’m glad she isn’t driving herself. The roads are probably awful by now, which is exactly why I told Brennan to text when he got home. Definitely not because I want an excuse to see his name pop up on my phone. Nope. Not that.

I lean in to hug Rick because I might as well, I’m on a roll tonight. “Thank you for looking out for my mom,” I say. He smiles, warm and unbothered. “My pleasure. But we both know she doesn’t need looking out for. I’m just glad she thinks she does, so I have an excuse to help.” He laughs and so do I, because he’s right. I like him.

Mom’s hugging Shayne when I swoop in dramatically, because sometimes I choose violence. Shayne rolls his eyes, muttering something about “main character energy,” and I hug Mom tight, inhaling the familiar comfort of her perfume like it’s tonight’s drug of choice: comfort mixed with childhood nostalgia.

I pull back, studying her face. The faint smile lines and the soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes pose as subtle reminders that she’s aging, even if she still feels ageless to me. I want her to be happy. I want her to have someone.